The Ever Passing Moment
by Dorian Gray
Summary: Unable to sleep, Trunks takes a late night flight to clear his head only to find he isn't the only one facing a sleepless night. TP friendship.


Standard Disclaimer: Dragonball Z/GT © Akira Toriyama, Shonen Jump, Toei Animation, FUNimation, et al.

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The Ever Passing Moment 

By Dorian Gray (hinikunokotsuzui@yahoo.com)

"_We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep_." -- The Tempest

Restless, that was it: he was restless. Several hours of tossing and turning in an increasingly uncomfortable bed, alternately staring at the clock and the ceiling had brought him no closer to sleep, so Trunks had finally abandoned the attempt altogether, and got up. 

The night air rushing past his face gave him a little relief from the unseasonably warm weather. And what was worse, it was muggy -- he hated that. He never slept well in hot weather. Maybe that was what was bothering him, the heat. But Trunks somehow knew it was not so simple. For him, it never was. 

He was not flying anywhere in particular; the act itself was its own end. It did bring him a little comfort, but even this, his escape from anything and everything -- his office, his home, his family -- even this felt a little off. And that disturbed him -- flying had always managed to fill him with an inner tranquility, however fleeting. 

The scenery below began to look familiar: slowly the Mount Paozu forest spread before him like a shadowy green mist in the night. A childhood habit, which he had never broken, directed him towards the Son's secluded house. Years ago, he had always sought out Goten when he was upset, or depressed, or during particularly vicious fights between his parents, and the impulse lingered. At least his mother didn't resort to frying pans: Vegeta had a hard head but sensitive hearing. Trunks sometimes had to fight down a smile at the way his mother had found one of the few things in existence that could make Vegeta, the prince of all saiyans, wince. It wasn't nearly as funny when she yelled at him. 

A small white dome came into view: Gohan's home was only a few miles away from Chichi's, and that fact surprised no one who knew Gohan well. Trunks slowed, lowering his ki so as not to disturb Gohan or Pan, and looped lazily around the darken house. A small figure, resting on the sloped roof caught his attention and he circled back. So he was not the only one who found sleep elusive.

Pan must have been deep in thought, or half-asleep, because she jumped a little at the small sound of his landing; Trunks had expected his ki to announce his presence. He did not stop to think just how strange it might have seemed for him to show up halfway across the continent at nearly one o'clock in the morning. Apparently it did not occur to Pan either, for her only comment was "I didn't know you even owned a pair of jeans."

Although he still lived with his parents, he had to do his own laundry, which meant that when he had groped around his closet for something clean, he found it all too empty. He had his suits dry-cleaned and relegated to their own, unfortunately larger closet which, on particularly bad days, he found he avoided even looking at. But at last he'd managed to dig out an old, well-worn pair of jeans that he might have bought a decade ago. They still fit perfectly -- the years had not changed him, physically at least. He could not remember exactly when he had switched from jeans and muscle shirts to khakis and sports coats. He idly reflected on the progression: perhaps it had not been for the better -- but he knew himself just well enough to realized that he would not change. Inertia, it seemed, was the most powerful force in the universe.

Pan moved over a little; it was not necessary -- they had the whole roof to themselves -- but he took it as an invitation to sit down. He had not seen Pan since her belated fifteenth birthday party and that was a month, no more than a month ago -- it actually had been her fourteenth and fifteenth birthday parties combined as both had been missed between their little space odyssey and the mess which followed -- but work had been crazy; Bulma was making sure he now made up for his yearlong "vacation." Between his unscheduled half days, off days and this most recent affair, Bulma had told him that he wasn't seeing another vacation until he turned forty and would sic Vegeta on him in a heartbeat if he so much as thought about skipping work. He would still rather be yelled at by his mother, than "train" with his father. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the planet would be attacked again so that he could go off to risk life and limb all at once rather than dying of boredom by inches in his office. Choices, choices: the possibilities seemed endless. 

His mind turned back to his mother's threat: he hated to think how soon he would be reaching thirty. The thought almost caused him to shutter and he pushed it away, carefully saving it for later when it could be properly savored. It struck him that Pan had not said anything more, which was odd. And what was she doing up at this hour? 

He looked at her, surreptitiously at first, but as he saw she was staring blankly up at the sky, he studied her more openly. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top, which was all one could comfortably wear in this kind of weather. It was becoming oppressively hot again now that he was no longer moving. At first he was content to chalk her insomnia up to the weather, a convent scapegoat for any problems he might currently be facing, but then he remembered that Pan hated cold, not heat like himself. She sometimes would sit and sun herself like some cold blooded reptile when any sane person would be seeking out the nearest air-conditioned building to hide in until night fell or the heat broke. 

So something was bothering her too. Now that he thought about it, Goten had mentioned she'd been kind of quiet lately. Everyone had been affected by Goku once again disappearing, but that was almost four months ago and Pan had at least pretended to get over it quickly. After all, it was nothing new -- Goku had been off training Uub for most of her life and had not been able even to recognize her the last time he returned. Still, there had been a bond, a certain similarity the two had shared, and it was obvious that she was much more affected by his absence than she was willing to openly admit. Everyone missed Goku, even Vegeta -- although he would die before he acknowledged as much, even to himself. He still insulted Kakarot at every opportunity, but his words rang hollow, maybe even in his own ears. Thinking back, the last time his mother had mention Goku, Vegeta had remained silent. 

Perhaps it was the way Goku had tried to say goodbye before he left that lent a finality to this particular round of martyrdom. Or perhaps it was how he had said goodbye to everyone but his family. Trunks could still remember the look on Goten's face as he watched Chichi slowly realize that once again her husband was not coming back. His friend's face had shown a quiet sort of anger that was not easily forgotten, anger and something more -- a kind of betrayal. Chichi had not thrown her usual fit, but just looked extremely annoyed and told everyone to go ahead and eat and that when Goku showed up, he would have to settle for leftovers. It was a double lie: he wasn't coming and there were never any leftovers. But underneath Chichi's shrill words had been the same sort of quietness he'd seen in Goten's face. Maybe she too had sensed that this time Goku was not coming back. Ever. Or maybe it was worse, and she still had a little hope. There had been a slow, hanging moment of silence as everyone added up the implications for themselves, and then quietly accepted the lie as it spread around the room. The food had been excellent as always. 

He had stuck around, even after Gohan had taken his family home, to see if Goten needed to talk or something. He had left after he walked in on Goten trying to comfort his crying mother, kneeling down on the kitchen floor surrounded by broken dishes. He was glad he had not been able to see his friend's expression, and Goten had never wanted to talk about it. 

Pan had nearly broken down several times but stubbornly refused to cry, however much it obviously hurt her not to, claiming Goku was not dead and that someday he'd come back. She knew it. He had to. But her voice lacked conviction. 

The silence between the two demi-saiyans stretched on, but it was not uncomfortable. Each seemed occupied with their own thoughts and content to be so. Trunks finally spoke up, stating the obvious in an attempt to start some sort of conversation. Pan and quiet didn't seem quite right. 

"Trouble sleeping?" Pan looked towards him and nodded, a promising beginning indeed. 

"Something bothering you, Panny-chan?" He cringed as the old nickname accidentally slipped out but with the fortitude cultivated from years of living with his mother, he resisted the urge to cover his ears and waited, almost patiently, for the inevitable tantrum.

"Don't call me that." Wow, she didn't even raise her voice. In fact, the entire correction was half-hearted at best. Now he knew something was wrong. 

"Sorry. So what's bugging you?" When he saw that she was only casting around for something plausible to tell him, he decided to let her be. Pan liked to fight her own battles and hated talking about herself -- well, only when it mattered. Normally, at this point, he would offer to spar -- he could tell quite a bit from how she was fighting, and it seemed to help her work through whatever was troubling her, but it was late and hot and, well, a generally unappealing prospect. He actually did sigh.

"Wanna spar?"

"Um . . . I'm kind of tired." Trunks was first shocked, then concerned. This was Pan, supposedly, and she just turned down a fight. 

"Hey," he reached out and lightly shook her shoulder until she looked at him, "you okay?"

"I . . ." she sighed in defeat, "I've been having trouble sleeping." They, however, had already established that point, but Pan was uncomfortable enough to make it seem as if that was the real problem, or part of it, and not just another evasion. 

"You know why?" God, Pan could be stubborn. Maybe she was thinking the same of him.

She looked away as if embarrassed. "Just bad dreams."

"You want to talk about it?" Of course she wanted to talk about it, which was why she had spent the last five minutes dodging his questions. There was a long pause, and he was about to give up when she spoke again

"It's just when Baby ordered everyone to kill me, and Dad had me by the neck and was forming an energy ball, but this time Uub doesn't show up and Dad fires and for a second there's an incredible pain in my chest and then I wake up." She said it all in one breath, the words rushing out before she could think better of it. He hadn't known about that, but then he didn't remember much from when he was under Baby's control. Trunks could never decide if it was a good thing or not. It was a strange feeling, not knowing. What might he have done? What had he done? But perhaps it was for the best, just so long as he never found out. 

Still, he was a little surprised that Pan was having nightmares; she seemed to be able to shrug off everything so easily. Pan acted more saiyan than any of the other hybrids, despite her overwhelmingly human blood, so Trunks didn't say anything. Pan would probably prefer it if he just acted like nothing had happen. Finally, she threw him a sharp look.

"What?" he asked. 

"Spill," was all she said. He gave her a puzzled look, but Pan just rolled her eyes.

"Something's bugging you too," she added.

"You wouldn't understand." He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth -- well, at least the way he had said them -- and Pan did look like she was going to get angry, but for the second time in a single sitting, she managed to get the better of her temper. That had to be some kind of record. 

"So you want me to play twenty questions too?" she teased in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

"No," he said quietly, looking away again, eyes focusing first on the horizon and then working up into the field of stars. They were brighter out here, away from the city, away from everything that was bothering him, trapping him, tying him down.

"Don't make me beat it out of you."

"Like you could ever do that," he said, matching her teasing tone. Pan hit him, covering any real hurt with mock-anger, turning her noise up with a sharp exhalation of long-suffering pride that was purposely overdone. There was a long pause before he continued, all the playfulness in his voice gone.

"I don't even know myself. It's like . . ." he groped around for words to describe what he was feeling, but found none. He shrugged, frustrated, "I don't know." Pan only nodded and went back to looking at the sky. 

"This just isn't how I pictured my life turning out." The words seemed to form themselves, and he was almost surprised by them, listening to them as though they were something foreign. Suddenly he felt self-conscious and glanced over at the girl sitting next to him: how must that sound to someone who was fifteen and had their whole life ahead of them? She probably didn't understand what he meant, but was clearly listening as she gazed up at the stars. He watched her: she was so young -- there was something fascinating about it. How he wished that he once again could be so completely free, still having a world of choices stretching out before him. When had the world grown so narrow? He tore himself away and went back to staring at the stars; but gradually, irresistibly he was drawn back: there was a certain beauty just in being young. He envied her that. If only . . . a ghost of a smile crossed his face as he let the thought go. Even if he could go back, he would end up in exactly the same place: the almost thirty-year-old -- and single -- Capsule Corporation president who lived with his parents. Still, he liked to think he was resigned to his fate.

"Well, how did you picture it?" Pan asked softly, still not looking at him -- somehow that made it easier and a little less awkward, like he wasn't spilling out his troubles to his best friend's kid niece.

"I . . ." he smiled again: it was something slightly bitter, "I don't know." Maybe that was part of the problem. If he hadn't inherited the presidency . . . if it hadn't always been there waiting for him . . . if for once in his life he'd had to find something for himself . . . He stood up. It was too hot to stay still for long. Pan stifled back a yawn. That was like Pan, not wanting to admit she was even tired. He swore that somehow some of his father's genes . . .

"Well, good night, kid." Trunks didn't really understand why he wanted to provoke her; perhaps he just wanted to test the extent of her new found patience, or perhaps he just wanted to have her act like the Pan he was used to; normally even hinting at the fact that she was still a child would make her furious -- but she only hit him again, lightly for a saiyan.

"Good night, old man." Touché. He took off with his usual salute, heading back home. Pan must be growing up if she didn't mind being called a child; how ironic. Maybe, in the end, all of their adventures together had done her some good. 

Creeping back in through the window, he flopped down on his now more comfortable bed. His flight must have done the trick. Or perhaps talking with Pan, of all people, had helped. He turned on his side and found that he was more or less hugging his pillow, a foolish habit. Really she was a pretty good listener. He hadn't noticed that before, but maybe it hadn't been there to see. She might be a brat, but she seemed to be developing some redeeming qualities. He'd been like that once, a spoiled brat, but it was a long time ago and he found it hard to remember. He was still grasping after faded childhood memories when sleep stole quietly over him.

It seemed like only moments later his alarm went off. Seeing no escape, he got up. He'd once heard that everyone always dreams, but as he stood watching his reflection fasten its tie, he found that he could not recall any from the pervious night -- somehow, it did not surprise him. With a careless flick of his mind he discarded his thoughts and slipped into the numbing mindset of a CEO; taking a last look at himself in the mirror, he went out to endure another day as the illustrious president of Capsule Corporation.


End file.
